I’m afraid I don’t have time to post a thoughtful entry today. It’s not like I’m sitting here with nothing to write about. On the contrary, I have a million things I want to share with you; I just haven’t had time to sit down and articulate them.
I barely had a moment to myself last weekend, with the Las Vegas Writers Conference and all, and then I had to submit my latest Living-Las-Vegas article last night before midnight. I probably shouldn’t say it, but it’s a piece of shit. I always seem to wait until the last goddamn minute, as if I haven’t known all along exactly when the deadline would be. I hope the site’s editor can somehow salvage it. I hate handing in crap.
I’ve been going, going, going… and it seems that so much of my time is spent doing things I really don’t want to do. Work is sucking big-time lately; it’s all I can do to force myself to show up, much less fake a smile. Enthusiasm is simply out of the question. Yeah, I know I should be happy to have a source of income at a time when so many people are losing theirs, but staring at gray cubicle walls all fucking day is making me mental. I have so many more important, more meaningful things to do.
I don’t think I ever told you this. About 10 years ago when I was a contractor for GE I went through such a severe “work sucks” period, I actually toyed with the idea of going into rehab. Not that I had a drug or alcohol problem in real life; I just wanted a month off from work. I had it all figured out. At the time I had awesome insurance that would cover almost all of the expenses of a 28-day program and I’d be able to collect short-term disability pay the whole time. Not to mention all the interesting new friends I’d make.
Well, my real-life friends talked me out of that one—God knows why—but I did have a Plan B. For the previous year or so, I had had a gigantic uterine fibroid which was causing super heavy periods. My gyno said, “Yeah, we can take it out or not—it’s up to you.” Then one day when I could stand not one more day of work, I called to find out how much disability time I could get if I opted for the surgery. When I was told I could get eight weeks, you betcha, I booked me a date for a myomectomy. My surgery was on July 1, I was in the hospital for two nights, and was feeling fine a week later. I returned to work all refreshed just before Labor Day. Eight pounds lighter, I might add.
And that, kids, is how your friend Linda Lou spent the summer of 1999.
Back then I was a mere 41 years old; now at 51, I wouldn’t want to put myself though elective surgery of any kind. But work is really unbearable these days. Hmmm… anyone for rehab?